


Toes, Curled

by tunteeton



Series: Omega's Lament [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Epilogue, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, Sherlock Plays the Violin, happy tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 23:38:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunteeton/pseuds/tunteeton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is Sherlock. Long fingers stroking the strings of the violin, thin wrists and straining shoulders lost in the music. Hollow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toes, Curled

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dancinbutterfly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinbutterfly/gifts).



> I hereby transfer all the blame for repeatedly poking a finished thing to dancinbutterfly, who denies the accusation but deep down knows it’s true.
> 
> So.
> 
> Once more, with feeling.
> 
> Omega’s Lament.

This is Sherlock. Long fingers stroking the strings of the violin, thin wrists and straining shoulders lost in the music. Hollow. 

Pacing on the warm floor, on the wooden floor, the texture rough against bare soles, bare toes. Stopping in front of the windows, gazing out into the morning, restless.

The people outside, children, men and women, alphas, betas, omegas. He sees them all, waits for the familiar reaction to rise, but it doesn't. Not anymore. He watches and breathes out, the music slow and sure. No guards on the door. No need for them.

The violin cradled close to his heart, blood still singing, skin still sensitive. The logs, still burning in the fireplace. He stops there next, adjusts the tune to the burning. Repetitive, gentle. Simple Tchaikovsky. Fitting for the moment.

This is Sherlock, hollow, restless, waiting. Back to the window. Look out, watch, patience. Soon, now. There. Dark jacket, leather patches, unreadable face. Key already in hand. Almost by the door. The music finds the tempo of those steps, urges them on. Hurry. You are missed. You are needed.

Key in lock now, feet on stairs, the door, opening, closing. His eyes fall shut, his skin yearning a touch. Gentle shivers, eager anticipation. I'm here. Come here. I've been waiting for you.

The sound of a shopping bag placed on a table. Shoes, kicked off to be found later. Soft thumps of steps closing the gap between them. Warm breath whispering on the silk of his dressing gown. And finally, the touch. Fingers on his hips, then whole palms, holding him, drawing him close. Soft press of lips to his neck. He smiles.

The music, unbroken, unhindered.

“I returned as fast as I could.” An apology, there. He understands. It's all right.

“I know.”

He relaxes into the hold, lets the music take over. John might be moving, swaying against him. Silk and skin against him, then only skin. He floats. Peaceful. Safe.

A silent murmur. “Let's get you away from the windows.”

He goes.

–

Satisfaction. This is what it feels like to be content, to not need anything else. Still Tchaikovsky, perfect in its repetition, its rising waves. He's warm, and safe, and loved.

He's sitting on John's lap, and John is deep inside him, locked in place, caressing his sides, his legs. Kisses on his back. He rests his head on John's temple, resides in a dreamy half-way-place. Every now and then, John rocks against him, pulses inside him, holds him tight for long perfect seconds. He gives his blessing with music, his tongue too heavy for forming words. Eyes closed, surrounded and loved. The music flows free from some hidden place.

Who would have known that this would be Tchaikovsky?

He feels the tears flowing down his back before he hears the hitch in John's breathing. He frowns. They are still joined, still sated. The music falters. It takes a long moment to find the words, to command his mouth. When the voice comes, it's low, only a whisper.

“What's wrong?”

“Don't stop playing, please don't stop just yet,” John pleads, runs his hands over his hair, his ribs.

“You're crying.”

“I'm not sad.”

More kisses, clumsy lips tracing his vertebrae. He relaxes back into the hold, lets the music rise again. The violin sobs with John.

“I've never been this happy,” John confesses and shudders around him, inside him.

Soon, he will have to let the violin go. He will have to touch John. It's all right.

But for a moment more, he plays.


End file.
